Still Waters
by Skylarcat
Summary: It began just as sex. Two friends finding comfort in one another, but it quickly involved into something deeper, something real, and it resembled something that could promise forever. A Five Part Arc on the evolution of the Flynn and Vega relationship.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Still Waters  
**Author:** Skylarcat  
**Classification:** A Five Part Arc on the evolution of the Flynn and Vega relationship.  
**Rating**: Rated R for the occasional bad word, nudity, and the adult-theme of this story. Reader discretion advised.  
**Feedback:** Please add this story to your favorite list, to your follow list, and most importantly please leave me a review. Tell me you hate it, that you love it, that you're reading it while sitting on the toilet; I don't care, but tell me something.  
**Summary:** It began just as sex. Two friends finding comfort in one another, but it quickly involved into something deeper, something real, and it resembled something that could promise forever. Important notes to consider, while reading: 1.) Don't get too invested in the case, I only used it as a means to progress the story. The story is the development of a relationship between Flynn and Vega. This is an adult centered story, with elements of sex. Don't worry, I was tactful with them. I consider this realistic fluff. 2.) Since the show hasn't revealed much on their past history, I created backstories for both of them. With time, the show could discredit me, or prove me correct, either way; it worked for the telling of this story. 3.) It took nearly three weeks to complete this, three weeks of painful agonizing, sleepless nights attempting to get this story right. Times where I thought this was the most amazing thing I ever written, and other times thinking this was the worst crap ever. Please, take the time to offer me your thoughts. :)  
**Note:** Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.

**Beginning**

**Part One:**

"Still waters run deep in that one."

The broad statement took Angie by surprise; she pushed back her chair slightly, tilting it to the right, the wheels a screech across the linoleum floor, as she glanced over her shoulder, to the direction of where the younger woman stared.

Her partner of five years was entering the interrogation room; his lips drawn into a frown that reached down to the wisp of his dark beard, that made him appear scruffy and mysterious, and always left her with the desire to run her long slender fingers through the stubble at the most inappropriate times, such as now.

The cheap lightening above their heads cast dark shadows across his skin, down his cheekbones, and along the point of his chin, intensifying his brooding appeal. His brows were furrowed and drew to a point, over the rim of his glasses that perched on the bridge of his nose. His blazer was unbutton, hanging loosely at his sides, the fabric flapping wildly, like the wings of a bird, filling and lifting with air with every step that he took, boasting that quiet confidence that was his and his alone.

In his one hand, he carried a cup of coffee; the other was preoccupied with smoothing his tie down against the starch of his crisp white button-down dress shirt. Oscar Vega always dressed precisely immaculate, everything in order and neat. She was still curious if he even own a pair of jeans, and took a mental note that next time she was alone in his bedroom to investigate.

He placed the cup of coffee down in front of Anna Hill, the current woman they were interviewing for their latest case. He caught the stare of Angie, nodding his head in her direction, before strolling over to take his familiar seat across from her.

She bit down on her bottom lip, in mindless thought, studying her partner. He was carefully arranging the sheets of paper in front of him, his eyes reading over the meticulous notes, making sure everything was in order. He wore that intense, thoughtful expression that Angie came to recognize over the years; he often regarded her in the same manner.

Anna Hill had been right with her earlier statement; still waters did run deep in him. Her partner's placid exterior hid a passionate, subtle nature. Angie, herself, had only recently become acquainted to the fervent position that Vega could take when he believed in something or someone; he would fight to death and honor in its defense.

Out of the two of them; he was the resilient one; the strong, study, calm one. Reserved on the exterior, he was often hard to read. She liked to think that was part of what had drawn her to him, the never being able to read him, but wanting to regardless.

She was the opposite. She thrived on conflict and turmoil. She had a tendency to be reckless in her actions, act now and ask questions later. She was impetuous by nature that way. Five years of their partnership had proven that opposites really did attract; they balanced each other. And like water, he was the deepest points, where the water ran the most calm and smooth. She was the shallowest points, where it made the most noise, but like water, they always meant and flowed best when together.

Her partner picked up his pen and leaned forward in his chair, resting against the bent of his elbow. He glanced once more at Angie before returning his attention to Anna, clearing his throat, preparing for the round of questioning. He combed his fingers through the bristles along his jaw, contemplating his choice of words. "Mrs. Hill," he began, "Can you think of anyone who would want your husband dead?"

Angie pulled her eyes away from her partner; long enough to tilt her head and regard Anna. She cradled her chin in the palm of her hand, narrowing her eyes. Angie had been a detective for quite a long time now, long enough to know that the most mundane aspects could present the most important clues, so she observed everything.

Anna Hill was in her middle thirties, with transparent skin, and dark eyes, and long, straight chestnut hair that fell down her shoulders and flipped at the ends. From where Angie sat, even in the dimly lit room, she could still see the tears that resided in the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall at any moment. She had just been informed that her husband of nine years had been discovered stabbed to death at a truck stop in the early morning hours of a Saturday, when most people were just beginning their days, over cups of coffee and plates of warm, buttery pancakes, reading the comics, planning out their day. Her husband had been taking his last breath, and for Anna, Saturdays would never be just another normal day again.

It was the aspect of her job that Angie could do without; the part that broke her down, that kept her up at nights. But it was also the reason why she stayed on as a homicide detective; the investigating and solving; it was like an addiction, or her life's mission, either way, it was what prevented her from walking away, from finding a less challenging, less dangerous job. It's what kept her going, kept her living.

Anna shook her head, clutching the wad of Kleenex tightly in her hand, her eyes darting wildly back and forth between the detectives. "I don't understand," her voice broke. She lifted a shaking hand to wipe at the tears that stubbornly fell down her cheeks, landing on the fabric of her pants, forming tiny pools. "He was well liked. We attended church on Sundays. He donated money to the local animal shelter downtown. Why would anyone want a man like that dead?"

Angie, who had been quietly observing the distraught woman up to that point, finally spoke up. "I know this is hard, but any information, no matter how unimportant it may seem could be beneficial…how was your husband's business doing? Any money problems?"

Anna sighed heavily, wiping the sleeves of her sweater over her tear-stained cheeks. "I don't know. He didn't talk business with me. His partner would know better than me."

"What's his name," Vega asked.

"Keith Adams." She paused, lifting a dark brow in thought. "I think I have one of their business cards in my wallet." She pushed out her chair slightly, reaching for her purse that sat by her feet. Angie watched as she pulled out her wallet, opened it and began to flip through its contents. She quickly found what she was looking for, and handed Oscar the small white business card. "That's all his information." She turned to face Angie, attempting to give her a faint smile. "Are you guys a couple?"

Angie immediately snapped her head around to meet her partner's stare; she wasn't expecting that question, nor was she expecting the reaction she was experiencing from it. It startled her, made her stomach become a bundle of nerves. Were they a couple? They hadn't really discussed it; was there a title for what they were doing? For his part, he didn't appear rattled in the slightest; still waters and all.

Anna must have picked up on the tension, because she quickly tried to explain herself. "My husband used to say I had a knack for reading people, for seeing things not so clearly defined. It's something in the way you look at one another." Her voice broke slightly as she dabbed her eyes with the tissue. "I'm sorry. I think this is becoming too much. Are we almost finished?"

Oscar nodded reassuringly, removing his glasses and placing them down on the table. He reached out his hand, brushing his fingers over the exposed skin on the back of Anna's wrist. "We're going to find whoever did this."

Anna nodded solemnly at Oscar's quiet comfort and Angie took the moment to clear her throat, indicating that they were finished with questions for the day. He got her hint and stood from his chair, collecting his items from the table, and followed her out of the interrogation room, heading down the hallway in the direction of their desks.

Angie was still pondering the earlier question; were they a couple? He could tell, like he always could, that something was on her mind. He reached out his hand, wrapping his fingers around her bicep, bringing her to an abrupt stop. "Don't worry; we'll figure this out," he said confidently. And for a moment, she wondered if he could read her mind. Of course, he was referring to the case, but he was right in both regards. They would figure this out in due time. He glanced down the hall, ensuring that they were mostly alone, and stepped closer to her, his mouth hovering above her ear. "Are you coming over later?"

She inhaled sharply, the presence of his sudden closeness making her legs feel weak and impossible to stand on. She slowly lifted her eyes to meet his and nodded. "Yeah, but stopping home first to pick up a change of clothes."

His eyes searched her face for moment and then he squeezed her arm slightly before dropping his hand away from her. She instantly craved his touch, and innately took a step forward when he took a step back, trying to narrow the space between them. "You know," he whispered softly. "When you're ready, there's a drawer reserved for you."

She folded her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing at it in consideration. "I know," she answered. He said nothing else as he turned, walking away from her. She stood alone in the hallway leaning against the wall, trying to quiet her mind down.

They had only recently started sleeping together. It just happened; except nothing ever just happened when it came to them. At first, it was just sex; two friends seeking physical comfort. The first time had occurred after a particularly difficult case, where a child had been murdered. The killer had gotten off due to insufficient evidence, and Angie blamed herself. So after a few shots of bourbon, she found herself driving to her partner's house in the late hours of darkness, needing reassurance or comfort or both. Maybe, partly due to the alcohol, and maybe partly in need to numb the pain and sadness, she moved, and he moved, and they kissed, and she thought she loved him, maybe a little bit, and before the guilt set in, and before the shock sobered her up, before she pulled away, but after her fingers were in his hair, she knew. It wasn't a little bit at all, so she kissed him again and again and again.

And when he could no longer rebuff her, when he no longer pushed her away, or told her to go home before they both did something they would regret, he finally kissed her back, needing human contact just as much as she, needing to feel something other than the dull stinging of failed cases that went on for too long. They moved quickly; where hands were rushed and ripped at the clothes that hindered them in a hurry, their bodies falling in a sweaty heap against the softness of his mattress. And when it was over, she woken the next morning, the sunlight creeping through the blinds of his bedroom window, casting light across their naked forms shamelessly; she quickly gathered her belongings and snuck out, without so much as telling him goodbye. It wasn't that she regretted it as much as the fact that it had been with her partner. Sex changed things. Changed people. And she wasn't sure she was ready for all of that.

They didn't talk about it for weeks. It was something that just occurred. So they went back to their routine of being partners, both pretending like nothing had changed between them. And, it might have stayed that way, if he hadn't shown up one night at her place carrying dinner. They had barely placed the food down on the table before they were going at it again, though this time it was slower and not as rushed. And afterwards, he didn't sneak out. So they reached an agreement, there was nothing wrong with them finding relief through sex with each other. It was just sexual; at least she told herself that, until that one night at his place, when everything changed for her.

She had straddled him, pressing her hands flatly against his bare chest. She positioned herself, so most of her weight rested on her knees, as she slowly grinded her hips over the length of him, her head tilted back, her eyes closed. When he took her by surprise; his hands gripping her waist tightly, flipping her over onto her back; she was pinned between the mattress and his body. "Look at me," he told her; his voice soft, warm, and as inviting as his lips, so she did. He pushed deeper inside her, securing her legs around his hips. Her breathing became rapid, as though there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. The beginnings of a climax rippling throughout her body, she reached down; gripping the cream-colored sheets tightly, the tension in her muscles building. He looked so intensely at her, burning her with scrutiny, and she had to look away, afraid of what she may see in his eyes.

He sensed this, and drew to a crawling pace, his hips stilling against hers. "Look at me," he repeated. "I want to see you as you come undone." He tilted her chin up, soft fingers carefully encouraging her to open her eyes. When she did, she felt the wetness of tears fall down her face. This was more than just sex. And as he quicken his pace, her legs began to tremble, her back arched, and she climaxed gripping tightly to his shoulders, never once removing her eyes from his. The only sound was the mumbling of his name, falling from her mouth, rendering her completely undone, and in that moment, she saw it. Saw it in his eyes; this was more than just sex. Felt it in her heart; this was more than just sex. It was there, clear as day; this wasn't just two friends seeking comfort and companionship; they were in love.

Neither was ready to title it that, so they allowed their bodies to say what their mouths were too afraid to. With early morning kisses along the jaw, and down the neck, and on the collarbone. And late night caresses, where fingers explored, and tickled, and held. Between cases that went on for entirely too long, and days that had no end, they told each other how much they cared through their bodies, and it was enough.

The spark had always been there, from the moment they first met; just waiting for the right moment to ignite, and now it smoldered everything in its path, burning her life to ashes. She needed him, not just in comfort, but because she loved him. And he needed her, too. So quietly and indirectly, they fell into this secretive relationship, that hadn't been given a title. Work was work, and they kept it professional, but she rarely ever slept alone anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two:**

When she arrived home, she threw her keys and purse down on the sofa, and walked through the kitchen, down the hall, passed Manny's bedroom. She paused briefly at his door, lifting a hand and placing it against the wood. It had been so quiet around there since he went to college; she considered this the reason why she liked staying at Oscar's place, because she didn't feel so alone there. She inhaled, and for a moment, she could smell Manny; the thick scent of aftershave and cheap cologne, and musty socks, and Oreo cookies, and that distinct boy smell. She missed her son.

Manny wasn't aware of the recent shift in her and Vega's relationship; though she suspected that he knew something was going on. The last few times he had called her, it had been late at night, and Vega insisted on talking to him as well, so she pretended they were working late on a case, which wasn't uncommon, but there was something in her son's tone that hinted on knowing the secret. Not that he would disapprove; his fondness for her partner was evident. He always sought out the older man's opinion and advice; Vega being about the sole male guidance in his life. She was always grateful for their closeness, and her partner's willingness to accept, not just her, but her son as well, into his life.

Her shoulders slouched downward as she entered her bedroom, stopping to flick on the small lamp that sat on her bedside table. Its light casting shades of yellow down her wall and across her floor, the soft movement distracting her for a moment. She walked over to her bed and holstered herself onto the center of the mattress, her black overnight bag, still empty, dipped along the cease, from where the fiction of her weight meant padding. She reached out a hand tentatively, her fingers gliding over the thick strap of the bag, pausing at the gold ring that bonded it to place. It was hard and cold beneath her fingers, and she squeezed her hand closed around it, tugging it closer to her.

Initially, she was going to only pack a change of clothes, but Vega's earlier sentiment still played in her mind; he had a drawer reserved for her. The thought excited and terrified her at the same time. It was the closest that they came to making this official, the next step in their untitled relationship. Oscar Vega offered forever; where things like security and refuge existed, but Angie was damaged goods, broken down by life. She didn't want to destroy him, the way she did everything else in her life.

She was complicated; hell she knew that, but she was more than just the hallow skin and brittle bones that congealed her to this world. More than the drunken love letters that sat in the bottom of her closet, the ink still wet. She was more than just a female detective, with her wit, and her bite. And how she handled things, or more importantly how she didn't, was a result of always feeling less than enough, not that this was his fault, but it would be the price he would have to pay for getting involved with her.

She drew her legs to her chest and rested her chin on her kneecaps, taking a shaky breath. She wasn't good at relationships or men in general. Her father was partly to blame for that.

As a young girl, she watched as her father chased back whatever liquor was the flavor of the month, scowling and sulking at life, and at her. He was an alcoholic, loving the bottle more than life itself, more than her mother, more than he loved her. But he was her father, the only one that she had, so she loved him unconditionally, determined to earn his praise and respect, even if he was a cheap, hateful drunk, who could never love her, because he couldn't even love himself, but she was a child, she didn't quite yet understand the ways of the world, or the sting of the bottle. She made sure to always stand tall and proper in his presence, staring him in the eyes, wearing the right clothes, saying all the right things, earning the highest grades in her class, but it was never enough. It would never be enough.

And by the time she was twelve, she was already broken. So she sat quietly in the corner of her parent's bedroom, watching as her father packed his suitcase. Her mother draped across the floor, clinging to his legs in a desperate fertile attempt to get him to stay. But Angie knew better, even at the tender young age, she knew men never stayed. Of course, he wouldn't. So she didn't move from her spot, didn't protest, her cheek still red and burning from the last time she rebuffed her father, so she silently watched him as he picked up his suitcase, discarding her mother to the side, like a used listless napkin, he never loved her.

Only when she heard the banging of the living room door did she stand on wobbly legs, crossing the room to peer at him through the bedroom curtains. He didn't even say goodbye, and she knew he wouldn't be coming back. It was then that she realized that love didn't truly exist, and no matter how much you wanted to believe, it would never be enough.

So she hardened herself. In a means to protect whatever was left of her. In college, she was promiscuous, giving her body to any man who said she was pretty, finding comfort in empty promises and in the arms of men, whose names she did not know. It dulled the pain temporarily, made her forget, and by the time she remembered, the sting and ache returning, they were already gone, never to call her again. Not that she wanted them too. She just wanted to feel something other than this twinge of despair and loneliness.

The tendency followed her into adulthood, where she would get involved with men that she could not have, men who had families that they would never leave. Men, who she shared her bed with, but never her heart. When she found out she was pregnant with Manny, she had wanted to give him the family that she never had, the family that he deserved. So she tried, and his father stayed for a while, though neither of them were content. He had never wanted to be a father, or a husband. And in all honesty, he no longer held her interest, so she allowed him to go, to leave, more determined than ever to be the best parent she could be to her son. He was the only thing she had ever done right in her life. Having a child changed her, made her want to be a better person. Manny saved her. At that point, she decided to do something with her life, to make a difference. That's why she became a detective, to have some sort of impact on the world.

Life, as so often was the case, passed in a flash. Of course, she stumbled along the way, made her mistakes, but becoming Oscar Vega's partner wasn't one of them. And from the first time she ever shook his hand, she knew he was different. From his quiet confidence, to the crinkles around his eyes, from how he stood, and the words he used, she was enamored; watching in awe at his ability to calm her, to tolerate her. Even before they started sleeping together, as friends and as partners, it was her longest relationship. No man, not even her father, was invested in her life as honorable as him. He made her believe again, to trust again, to love again.

In his own way, Vega was just as damaged as she. He was just better at hiding it, but there were times he allowed her to get a glimpse. Like the night they went out for drinks, celebrating their third year as partners. After about the fifth round of shots, he glanced over at her, his eyes glassy and sparkling, his lips spread wide. "You would have liked my mom," he said so quietly that she almost missed it. Almost, and as she turned, studying him in the darkness of the bar, she saw the flash of hurt and pain, recognized it in his eyes, knew it well from her own experiences. "You remind me of her," he said sadly. She reached out, cupping his hands in her own, her fingers intertwining within his. "You're a lot like her. Stubborn." He laughed. "Passionate."

She smiled faintly, trying to picture the woman he described. She imaged her with Vega's dark eyes and dark hair, but put her own personality traits in her. The thought shifted, and suddenly she was imagining the children that she and Vega could make. The thought swelled and inflated and became so picture-clear, that she thought it was almost tangible. "What happened to your mom," she asked, lowering her eyes from his, attempting to avert her attention from the little boy with blonde curls and blue eyes with the devoted loyalty and quiet confidence, from the little girl with dark pig-tails and dark eyes and personality with fight and wit. How they would be the best of both of them.

"Cancer," he revealed. Vega had only been a young man, newly into adulthood when she died. He didn't take her death well, and attempting to find himself, and partly in search of reason, he found faith. He turned to religion as Angie had turned to men, as a source of comfort. It had been enough, so much so that he considered a life in the priesthood, but then, as with her, it no longer fulfilled him, and in an attempt to find purpose, to make a difference, and in part to piss off his father, he became a detective.

Angie had meant his father once, at one of his numerous weddings. He was a nice enough man, liking women as much as he liked money, but it was clear that there was tension between him and son. Vega was remote and detached, and regarded his father with distain, he hadn't offered much support to Vega after he lost his mother; she imagined he had been grieving in his own way, but children need their parents; he let Vega down in that aspect.

It was such a personal facet of Vega's life, that up until then, she had never been privileged to scrutinize, he was a very private person, always giving her the standard overview of his life. But this was different. This was no longer her standing on the outside with her face scrunched up against the glass, trying to steal a peek. This was him allowing her in. His guard had finally come down. She had never felt so hopeful in her life.

Hope. The reason she wouldn't allow herself to give up and run, not now, not when everything she could ever want was right in her reach. There was hope, there in the gridlock, in the loneliness, in too much work, and in cases that went on for too long, hope in him, and in her, and in their newly not defined relationship. It was because of hope that she stood from her bed, gathering an assortment of clothing, and stuffing them into her overnight bag. She packed more than one night's worth of clothes. She disappeared into her bathroom, pulling open her mirror, and grabbing the item she was looking for. She tossed her extra toothbrush into her bag and zipped it closed, and before she could change her mind, she turned off her light and locked up her house, and headed to his place.

It was late by the time she arrived; the house was dark, only his bedroom light was on. He probably figured she decided not to come. She picked up her cellphone and thought about calling to make sure it was still okay, but it felt somehow impersonal, she knew she never needed a reason to show up at his door. And she had shown up at his door, more times than she could count, that was how they arrived at this point in the first place. So instead, she climbed out into the winter night's air, her feet crunching against the snow as she made her way to his door, using the key he had given her years ago. "Just in case," he had said, as she put it on her key ring, next to her car key.

She walked down the hall, in the direction of his bedroom; she knew the way, even in the dark, familiar with the layout, knowing it like the back of her hand. She entered his bedroom to find him lounged in his bed, his laptop hugging his chest. He looked up at her, through perched glasses as she stepped in. She squinted against the sudden light and he gave her a knowing smile, watching her intently as she approached, forsaking her overnight bag for the moment, and sitting on the foot of his bed. She removed her jacket, and sprawled it over one of the posts of the bed. She lifted her leg, bringing her foot closer, and unzipped her boot. It fell to the floor in a thud. She did the same to the other. He closed his laptop, discarding it on the chair that rested in the corner of his room. He met her halfway, his lips brushing across hers softly. She entangled her arms around his neck, tugging the strands of his hair. He groaned against her touch, lowering his mouth to the patch of skin around her collarbone. "What took you so long," he asked, leaving kisses on the scope of her neck.

"I was packing," she managed, in a breathless whisper. He pulled away, giving her a sharp look. She smiled, patting him on the back, then moved off the bed, bending slightly to retrieve her overnight bag. He watched as she unzipped it, pulling out her clothing. He sat quietly as she pulled open the middle drawer, the one she knew was empty; the one he reserved for her. Lastly, she pulled out her toothbrush. His expression was classic, so she shrugged her shoulders. "Just in case," she said, her eyes glistening.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three:**

"You make me nervous," he said, as she crawled into his bed, her knees pressing hard into the mattress. "When you're so near," he continued; his voice a low draw. "I don't know what to do with my hands. I don't know if I should shove them into my pockets, or crack my knuckles. It's like I never had hands before, and the only thing they want to do, is reach out and touch you."

She reached out her hands, her soft fingers landing on the upper parts of his arms, where they danced for a moment, in delicate circles; then slowly she began to walk her fingers down, passed his elbows, to the adjunction of his wrists. She drew them closer to her face, inspecting the lines written across his palms, feeling the heat and the softness that his skin rendered. Gently, she brought a hand to her lips, planting several small quick kisses along his wrist, and up the back of his hand, to his knuckles.

He sighed contently and leaned further into her touch, his body closing the gap that separated them. She titled her head slightly, moving to kiss him along his chin, and beside his cheekbones, and across the bridge of his nose. He tasted tangy, a bit salty, and dangerously delicious. His fingers skimmed the skin on her stomach, the warmth from them seeping up her chest, and into the back of her throat, causing her to catch her breath; the desire spreading throughout her body and coming to rest at the heat between her legs. His concentrated fingers tugged at the hem of her sweater, pulling absently, so she lifted her arms up, assisting him in its removal. He glided the fabric up and over her head in one swift motion, tossing it across the room. It hit the wall and fell to the floor in a forgotten heap. He caressed the length of her shoulders, skating his fingers down her chest, pausing in the hallow just above her collarbone. He bent his head down, kissing her on the neck, light as air, marking her with his teeth and lips. Her eyes turned a muted blue as he continued to move his hands downward, stretching around her sides, and locking at the small of her back, pulling her into him in one quick snap; his mouth crashing against hers, and she moaned in response; the air heavy, the room electric, sizzling around them.

She raised her hands, clutching the sides of his face, holding onto him for dear life. His mouth was warm and inviting against hers, and she scraped her teeth across his bottom lip, tugging at it slightly. He groaned hungrily, in desperate need for deeper contact, his hands pressing into her shoulder blades. He knew her well; knew the art of her body, what each sigh indicated, and by the time it took them to finish undressing, and after they had fallen into the mattress, a sweaty heap of tangled limbs, she was already a complete bundle of nerves, anticipating his every move.

He touched her with a renowned sense of care, as though he had all the time in the world, exploring the secrets of her body, mapping out her curves, and like a flower she blossomed under his touch, her back arching, her lips calling out his name. She withered between the sheets, mangled against his sticky body, where the night was still, and only he existed, and only she, and only that moment where she found absolution in the embrace of his arms.

She nestled against the bareness of his chest, in the cove of his neck, watching him as he slept soundly. She felt the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, her hand draped across his waist. It might have been complicated, it might have been messy, it might have been hard, but it was worth it, to have him like this every day of her life. They were discovering, in their own way, how to be a couple; the correct placement of hands and feet, the shadow across the face, and a finger to the brow. They felt and learned their way around each other; she wondered how she ever existed before him, how she ever lived and breathed without his presence. She moved closer, folding her naked body into his. His arm instantly wrapped around her, even in his sleep, seeking out her warmth and comfort. She closed her eyes and smiled herself to sleep, a peaceful haze of blissful dreams following.

She was awoken by the faint ringing sound of her cellphone; her eyes slowly blinking awake. She stretched and rolled over to her side, reaching for her phone from where it rested on his bedside table. She tucked the sheet around the starkness of her breasts, mindful not to wake him. "Flynn," she muzzled through a yawn.

"Detective Flynn; it's Lucas, sorry to wake you." Groggily with sleep heavy lids, she searched for the clock next to his bed, reading the harsh red numbers in the dark. Nearly three in the morning, she knew what was coming. There was only one reason he would be calling her this late. "There's been a murder," Lucas explained. "Anna Hill was found dead about thirty minutes ago."

Her eyes flew opened, the quick thumbing of her heart hitting against her chest. Anna had just lost her husband, and now she, too, was dead. Angie was already connecting the dots; whoever killed her husband came back and murdered her, but why? She squeezed the bridge of her nose, wiping the back of her hand across her tired eyes. "Where," she asked Lucas.

"At North and Nine, across from the Seven Eleven; I'll call Detective Vega."

"No," Angie practically yelled into the phone, pausing to take a deep breath and to collect her thoughts. "That's okay, Lucas; I'll reach him." She hung up her phone, tossing it back on the night side table, rolling over to stare at her sleeping partner. She hated to wake him, to disturb his peaceful dreams with the news of a murder. But it was the high cost of being a detective; peace never came in their line of work.

"Vega," she whispered near his ear, not wanting to startle him. "Wake-up, baby." She gently shook his shoulders, his eyes slowly opening, regarding her with a look of concerned.

"Angie, what's wrong?" His voice was groggily and strained and he quickly rose to his elbows, searching her face through dark eyes.

She sighed, stretching her body along the length of his, resting her head against his shoulder. "Lucas just called; Anna Hill was murdered tonight." Her voice was flat, the declaration following stalely from her lips.

His fingers idly played in her hair, as his lips drew in a tight line across his face. He was quiet for a moment, allowing her words to sink in. "I'll make us coffee," he announced, after a pause, throwing back the covers, and reaching for his pajama bottoms. She watched as he stood, bare-assed, pulling the thin material up over his hips. Even in the darkness, his physique was strong, she traced the outline of his muscles, moving into the spot that he vacated, feeling the warmth left from his body.

Minutes later they were both dressed, standing in his living room, wearing coats and gloves with thermoses of hot coffee. He reached down, taking her hand and led her out into the cold winter night, out to investigate another murder just as cold as the night air. The gallant life of heroes, she mused, following closely behind him, smiling to herself as he automatically headed in the direction of her car. He allowed her that victory, to drive the car he openly hated, but secretly loved.

"Your car's a piece of shit," he once told her as she dangled the keys in front of him triumphantly. "Yeah, well it's my piece of shit," she shot back, laughing the entire time. "And I'm driving." From that point on, he always allowed her to drive, though he complained the whole time. It was just his way, to let her win, while protesting boisterously; all bark and no bite.

She inhaled sharply, her breath rolling out in puffs of steam, condensation soaked and breathless. She inhaled again, realizing that she smelled like him; manly, of aftershave and cologne; the faint scent of their earlier love-making still lingering on her skin. She loved that smell; how it filled her senses and clouded her mind, and how she never wanted to smell like anything else ever again. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck, knotting the fabric in the front, and slipped into the driver's side of the car, waiting for him to fall in beside her.

They drove in silence, both in their own thoughts. Passing through greenlights and stopping at stop signs; they had seen too much together; too much death, too much regret, too much sadness. The kind of thing that could break a person, would have broken her a long time ago, if it weren't for him. As a detective, she thrived in the cold, when the snow crunched beneath her feet, the ice glittering in the sun, the sheen from it blinding the naked eye. Death didn't seem as horrid then, against the newness of snow and frost; she almost didn't mind the sobering task of explaining a murder, almost prospered within the unlocking of the mystery.

They reached the crime scene a short time later, the sun reflecting harshly against the snow, the sheen from it burning her eyes; she squinted, pulling down her sunglasses from the visor, glancing at Vega before putting them on. They exited the car, taking in their surroundings in one study glimpse. There were cars lined up, in front of the Seven Eleven, the morning hours just beginning. Off to the side of the convenience store, where the yellow caution tape was sharp and bright against the snow, stood several officers. She saw that they had covered Anna with a tarp, to protect her from the elements and the prying eyes of passing drivers, who were slowly being directed past the accident scene, here was where life and death merged, in a careful line, where the victim still had a story to tell.

Betty stood near the placement of the body, holding an umbrella tightly and wearing an expensive looking pair of snow boots, her body bent in an angle. Angie tested her footing, the snow crunching and breaking beneath her footing, but feeling somewhat secure, so she took another step, her foot instantly giving away on the ice, but Vega was prepared for this and reached out his hand, and automatically she grabbed it, intertwining her fingers with his, forgetting at the moment that they weren't alone, the action almost innate. It wasn't lost on Betty, who stared pointedly at their clasped hands, before lifting her eyes to meet Angie's knowingly. She quickly dropped his hand, brushing her palms across her pants, averting her attention from Betty, lowering to examine the body.

She pulled back the tarp with a sudden swoosh, placing it to the side and staring at Anna's snow covered face, her still-open dark eyes. Her hair was a tangled mess of wet snow and dirt and gathered at her forehead in tightly knotted wads. Angie brushed a few strands out of the way, her fingers careful of the bruising around her skin, running along the scope of her neck. "Do we know the cause of death?" She sat back against her heels, staring up at Betty in questioning.

The redhead sighed, her brow arching. "Without yet performing a full autopsy, I would say the initial cause of death appears to be strangulation. Indicated by the bruising around her neck; my guess, it was a belt."

Angie shook her head, sighing to herself. Strangulation was a personal crime; the killer had to look directly into Anna's eyes, seeing her fear reflected back, watched as she struggled, fighting for her very life, and ultimately taking her last breath.

"Any connection to her husband's death, witnesses?" Vega asked from behind her. She rotated on her feet, turning slightly and standing up, glancing over her shoulder, noticing Lucas had joined them and now stood next to her partner.

The younger detective shook his head, opening his notepad and flipping through the sheets of paper. "Not much on witnesses, not surprising though considering the time of the murder; most people would be home in bed during that time. But there doesn't appear to be any sign of a struggle or a fight, suggesting that she wasn't killed here, but simply dumped."

Angie frowned, her brows narrowing. The murder was horrific enough without the total disrespect of the discarding of her body, in a dark alley of some convenience store as though she didn't have a family that loved and cared about her. She glanced at her partner, seeing the lines begin to form across his forehead, his mind already rattling in thought. They had another long case ahead of them, and for a moment, she wished for normalcy, for quiet, for them to be snuggled together, alone in his bed.

An hour later, they had finished sealing off the crime scene, interviewed a handful of potential witnesses, and jotted down a crap load of notes. Finally, they climbed back into her car, their bodies already wary and drained. She started the ignition, drumming her fingers across her steering wheel, both quietly waiting for the heat to kick in. She stared straight ahead, through the windshield of her car, watching as the officers scattered around. She took a breath, speaking the words she was afraid to voice. "Betty knows," it came out in one long drawn out whisper, and she didn't dare turn to look at him.

He was quiet for one long moment; the fear and panic building inside her. "How do you know," he finally asked.

She folded her arms across the wheel and tilted her head, resting her chin on the fold of her arms. "Woman just know these things." She wasn't sure what to expect, what his reaction would be; the thought of people knowing they were sleeping together.

He exhaled a lengthy breath; and she held hers as she waited for his response. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders, "Let her know then." She smiled in spite of herself, feeling a warm feeling from deep within, she put the car in drive. He said nothing else, only reached out rubbing his fingers across her arm.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four:**

Angie sprawled across her bed, throwing the blanket half-hazardously across her legs, in fertile attempt to get comfortable. A headache was already forming along her temple, reaching all the way down to the base of her neck and she winced, bringing her fingers up to rub the corners of her forehead. The last couple of days had proven to be difficult to say the least. Their case was at a standstill; hours spent interviewing a range of people, following countless leads, and completing the occasional paperwork. The only thing they had managed to achieve was a motive, but with a lack of evidence to make an arrest. She missed Vega.

With the case consuming most of their time, and her concerned that their involvement was distracting her, preventing her from doing her job somehow, she decided to go back to her house, alone. The last forty-eight hours had made Angie confront the truth; she had become accustomed of sleeping next to him, of having his arms draped around her, of having her head curled in the base of his neck. Now her oversized bed seemed too empty, and each night without him left her tossing and turning unable to get any rest.

Her mind was on full alert; constantly gnawing at the possible scenarios of their case. Their only solid lead was Keith Adams; the business partner of their first murdered victim, David Hill. Both Flynn and Vega suspected that Adams was having an affair with David's wife Anna, who was their second murdered victim. He was the common link; unable to provide the detective's with a concrete alibi on his whereabouts on both nights in question. Angie's gut told her that he was their killer, but she couldn't arrest people based on intuition alone.

The motive that she and Vega constructed was that David had discovered his business partner's affair with his wife, confronted the man, and in the heat of the moment, Keith murdered him. Anna, suspecting his involvement in the death of her husband, threatened to reveal all, and Keith killed her, attempting to cover-up his crime. They needed something more substantive to make an arrest on.

She was walking that fine line as a detective, where she either remained cool and confident, slowly gathering evidence and building a case, or jumping the gun, making an arrest, hoping that even without confirmative evidence that she still had a case. This was where her partner always reined her in, preventing her from acting impulsively. Sometimes, she could not figure that man out. How he could remain so patient; waiting her out, even in her bursts of frustrations, but she was grateful for his ability to ground her, to keep her steady. She had waited her whole life to find something this real, her whole life waiting to find him.

She stretched her arm up over head, her fingers coiling through strands of blonde hair, lost in thought; watching shadows as they danced aimlessly across her ceiling, sleep was not coming easy tonight. She wondered if her partner was having any better luck. Almost as though on cue, her phone buzzed and lit up beside her; its glow a sharp line, illuminating through the darkness. She lifted it up, pressing a button, and read the message. It was from Vega, informing her that he couldn't sleep, that he missed her, that he wanted her to come over. She smiled to herself, disregarding the late hour, and began to get dress. She needed to see him, to feel him, to be next to him; it was the closest thing to heaven that she had.

When she arrived, he was already in bed, looking up as she walked in, smiling somewhat triumphantly. Despite her earlier protests of them carrying on, the reality of the situation was that there would always be a case, always a reason, always an excuse for her to sabotage this. She was going to throw caution to the wind, to allow the pieces to fall where they may.

He watched her closely as she stripped out of her coat, discarding it across the arms of his chair. She unzipped her boots, kicking them to the side with her bare feet. Oscar pulled back the bedspread and padded the empty spot beside him encouragingly. She couldn't hide the smile from sneaking across her lips, though she tried. Quickly, she pulled off her shirt, stepping out of her jeans, leaving the clothes scattered across the floor, as she gracefully climbed in beside him.

He held out his arms to her and she fell against his chest in a heavy sigh, nudging her head in the space between his neck and shoulder, fitting there as though the spot was made for her and only her. His fingers absently played with the ends of her hair and she closed her eyes, burying her face in his skin, inhaling sharply, taking in his smell of musk and heat and earth.

"I haven't been able to sleep," he whispered into her hair and she titled her head up to look at him. His eyes were dilated, dark and round, and regarded her affectionately.

His fingers stoked behind her ear, down the scope of her neck, to the roundness of her shoulder. "Me either," she admitted, placing her hand on top of his; their fingers interweaving.

He watched her gingerly, beneath his dark lashes and furrowed brows, and raised his other hand, tilting her chin as the back of his thumb ran the length of her bottom lip, bending to slowly kiss her on the mouth. She rolled onto her back, so now he slightly hovered over her, able to kiss her more fully.

That night she slept soundly.

The morning came, spilling through his bedroom window in hues of gold and orange, and she blinked her eyes, adjusting to the sudden light. Oscar was propped up on his elbow, his head tilted downward, watching intently as she slowly came awake. Her cheeks became warm and flush from his increasing scrutiny. She rolled over onto her stomach, her limbs heavy with sleep, and buried her face into a pillow, arching her back and pointing her toes, stretching her wary muscles. She peeked at him through a mass of blonde curls. "How long have you been awake," she inquired breathlessly.

He watched her, wide-eyed and grinning, and reached his hand out, brushing his fingers along her shoulders, down the length of her naked back, pausing as they reached her tailbone. She hummed beneath his touch, her skin warm and glowing in the morning light. He kissed her gently on the neck and down around her shoulders. "Long enough to know that you snore," he teased, scraping his teeth across her flesh.

She lifted her head exasperatedly. "I do not!" She griped, picking up a pillow and swinging it at him. He dodged from its reach, grabbing it easily with his hand, giving her a perplex look before pulling it sharply towards him, forcing her to follow and fall against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her, his fingers gliding up and down the length of her back in quick smooth motions. "Okay, maybe it was more of a purr than an actual snore," he admitted.

She laughed against his chest, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. If it wasn't for their case, she would have stayed there forever, but there was work to be done, so she reluctantly pulled away from his embrace, pushing the covers back and standing to her feet. "I'm going to take a shower."

His fingers wrapped around her wrist, preventing her from moving. His eyes slowly traveling over the length of her naked body, taking in her full curves, her delicate skin, her ample breasts, and the fall of her hips, and she blushed beneath his inquiry. "Want some company?" His voice was low and raspy and dripped with sex.

"I would love some company," she said, leaning down and kissing him fully on the mouth, her fingers tracing the length of his chin. She took a step back, licking her lips, and squeezed his shoulders. "I'm going to go prepare our shower."

She opened the shower door, turning the knobs, and adjusting the water temperature accordingly; pausing, her hand in midair, as she noticed her favorite brand of shampoo and conditioner. At some point, from the last time she spent the night till then, he had gone to the store and purchased them, even a bottle of sweet smelling body wash and a pink body puff.

She tried to imagine him walking into the bath department, placing the items into his cart, and heading to the checkout. There was something surreal about it. She had a drawer in his dresser, half of his closet, a key to his place, and now bath items; she had practically moved in, though indirectly. They still hadn't even admitted that this was a relationship, but here he was buying her personal bath items.

She was so consumed in thought that she didn't hear him approach behind her, and nearly jumped out of her skin as he wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. He realized instantly what held her attention, letting her go and looking down sheepishly. "I figured you would prefer that over the Axe and Old Spice." His fingers fumbled with the drawstring of his pajama pants, trying to play coy, but Angie could pick up on his nervousness.

"I like smelling like you," she said aimlessly, watching as he pulled down his pajama bottoms, stepping out of the fabric, now standing in front of her completely nude. She bit her lip, raking her eyes over him.

He shrugged his shoulders, stepping passed her and into the shower. "Okay, well I'll smell like flowers and strawberries then."

She tried not to laugh as she followed him in, shutting the door behind them. The water was warm, soaking them immediately as she attempted to turn, her foot slipping on the tile floor, and for one pulse-pounding moment, she thought she was going to land on her ass, but he caught her effortlessly, both laughing at her clumsiness.

The light skated across his cheeks, making his eyes shine darker, his jawline more pronounced. They clasped their hands, fingers folding together naturally, and for a moment, it felt like time stood still.

He lifted her bottle of shampoo, pouring some of its contents in the palm of his hand, twirling his finger to indicate that he wanted her to turn around. She did, pressing a hand against the glass door for balance. She felt his fingers begin to knead her scalp, strong thumbs massaging the base of her neck. She never had a man wash her hair before, never experienced the feel of fingers running intimately through her locks, and the fact that it was her partner only made it more delirious.

By the time the shampoo was washed out, going down the drain in soapy bubbles, she was already looking at him, knowing where this was heading. The desire in his dark eyes, the tremble of his hand as he touched her, he knew also. And in an instant, she had her back pressed against the shower wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth on hers. And she prayed that he would never get tired of touching her.

Later that day, they arrived at the precinct, cups of coffee in hand, and a bag of donuts. They had a short time to prepare for another round of questioning with Keith Adams, and Angie knew they had to make it count; time was ticking down for this case. They had already sent in for warrant to search his house, it would be arriving at any moment, and the pressure was on. Their last case, her jumping the gun, it falling apart in her very hands, still registered fresh in her mind. She couldn't mess this one up.

Keith Adams was a cocky salesman, making a shitload of money in his early twenties, and never looking back. He was in his forties now, arrogant, with a sense of entitlement that left Angie with a bad taste in her mouth. Every time that they interviewed him, he would talk to them in a tone that suggested that he thought he was better than them; that being a detective wasn't a respectable career, and she had to resist the urge to punch that ridiculous smug ass smirk off his face.

This time around, they were going to take a more stern approach, shake him up a little. So when Lucas informed them that Keith Adams was in the interrogation room, ready to go, the partners exchanged glances, the tension thick and mounting. She took a breath and followed her partner in, knowing this was their last chance.

Keith sat at the table, cool, calm and collected, clean shaven and wearing an expensive business suit. His hands were folded neatly in front of him, and when the detectives entered, he didn't even bother looking up. Angie shut the door with more force than needed, the blinds rattling against the window pane.

Vega took his time walking around the table, slowly pulling out his chair and taking a seat. Angie decided to stay standing, leaning on the far wall, her arms crossed defiantly. Neither of them spoke, allowing the silence to become uncomfortable. Keith stared straight ahead, not acknowledging their presence, but Angie detected the lump in his throat as he swallowed; beads of sweat forming across his brow, they had him nervous. She placed her hand beneath her chin and regarded her partner. "Would you like some coffee?"

Vega's eyes stayed on Keith as he shook his head. "No, I'm good. You good?"

"I'm good," she answered; her tone flat and dry. Their intention was to break him, to wear him down, to get him to talk.

"I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee," Keith replied. A thin smile breaking across his lips, the glint of white teeth, and Angie wanted to knock them out one by one.

She crossed the room, placing a hand on the back of his chair, bending slightly so that she was at his eye level. "Well, it's a good thing we don't care what you want." Serving her point with a long cold stare, she stood back up, placing her hands on her hips, and paced across to the other side of the table, where she kicked out her chair and took a seat. She flipped opened the vanilla file in front of her, arranging the photos of their dead victims in front of him. "Now, do you want to tell us why you murdered them, or would you like us to do that for you?"

He stared at the photos, laughing cruelly, and lifted his cold, emotionless eyes to meet Angie's. He tilted his head pointedly; a wide cocky grin across his mouth. "Considering how you like to do most of the talking, why don't you tell me?"

Vega faked a laugh and slapped his hand down exaggeratedly on the table, glancing in Angie's direction. "That's funny." He pointed his thumb at Keith, telling Angie, "He's a funny guy."

"Yeah, a regular comedian," Angie agreed, leaning back in her chair, and folding her arms across her chest. It was time for her to go in for the kill. "You see, Mr. Adams, we looked into your phone records, checked a few times and dates. We know you were having an affair with Anna. I bet David didn't take too fondly of you sleeping with his wife. I bet that really pissed you off, him threatening to end his partnership with you, all that money you stood to lose. You had reason to kill him."

"I didn't kill anyone," Keith said firmly, but she saw his hand shake, the nervous flitch in his eye. "So what, I was shagging his wife, the last time I checked, detectives, an affair wasn't a crime."

"No, but murder is," Vega interjected. "What Anna say, that she was going to go to the police, is that why you killed her, too?"

"You don't know what you are talking about," Keith said, balling his hands into tight fists, the detective's accusations making him angry.

"Then why don't you tell us," Angie replied.

The man raked a hand through his blonde hair and shook his head. "I think I'm done answering your questions. Either make an arrest, or go through my attorney for now on."

Angie groaned inwardly at the mention of an attorney, knowing they wouldn't be getting any further with him. She rolled her chair over, so she was sitting opposite of him, and dropped the paper in front of him. "Know what that is?" When he didn't answer, she continued. "It's a warrant to search your house. You better hope you got rid of all the evidence because we're about to nail your ass. So I suggest you call that lawyer sooner than later." She stood quickly from the chair, sending it rolling backwards from the force, and exited the room.

She was already walking at a feverish pace down the hallway when Vega grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. "Would you stop for a minute?"

"He's guilty," she practically shouted into his face. She looked down and sighed; she wasn't mad at her partner, she was mad because their killer had managed to get under her skin. He thought he had committed the perfect crime, and that he was going to get away with it.

"I know that and you know that. We need the evidence to say that." He squeezed her shoulders softly, looking her in the eyes until she began to calm down. "Come on, I'll buy dinner."

She tossed and turned that night, unable to sleep, waking up sometime in the early morning hours. Her hair was damp and sticking to head as she rolled over to her side, taking a moment to adjust to her surroundings. She reached out her hand, finding his side of the bed empty. She sat up, pushing the covers back, blinking her eyes in the darkness. The bedroom door was left slightly ajar; the faint line of light sneaking out it beneath it.

She dangled her legs over the side of the bed, searching for something to cover her nudity with, deciding on his white oxford button-down dress shirt, the one he wore the night before. She quickly threw it over her shoulders, the fabric soft against her skin, and buttoned it half-hazardously, her fingers fumbling with the round buttons. She stood, padding out of the room, into the hallway, and in the direction of the kitchen, where the light was on.

She entered the room to find him standing at the stove, a frying pan in front of him, seemly unfazed by her presence. She crossed over to stand behind him, crossing her arms around his chest, kissing him lightly on his back. He leaned into her touch, bringing his hands up to rest against her arms. "Couldn't sleep?"

She shook her head, tracing her fingers down his back. She kissed his shoulder one last time and then stepped away, holstering herself up onto the counter beside him, her long legs dangling and hitting against the bottom cabinet door. "No, but it looks like I wasn't the only one."

She watched as he removed the pan away from the heat, placing it aside, and then reached above his head, pulling down two plates. "Made scrambled eggs; you hungry?"

"I'm always hungry," she replied in a sharp, suggestive tone. He turned catching her eye, an amused expression on his face. "You know what I mean," she reasoned, licking her lips in spite of herself. He was a beautiful man.

"I do," he said. "That's why I love you." The room grew quiet as they stared at each other for a long moment, neither knowing how to approach the subject. He looked down nervously, fumbling over his words. "I mean, I love that about you, not that…you know…"

"I love you, too," she blurted out without even thinking it through. His eyes found hers, and in one long terrifying moment, she wasn't sure how he would respond. His fingers brushed over her knees, and she parted her legs, allowing him to slip between them. He traced the outer length of her thighs softly, leaning his forehead against hers. She let out the breath that she had been holding, closing her eyes as he tilted her head back kissing her deeply on the mouth. By the time his hands buried themselves into her hair, she knew the eggs would be left to grow cold, and she knew that he loved her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five:**

Angie knew she was risking everything, and it wasn't in her nature to do so. After her father had left, her mother would lay beside her daughter at night, brushing her long blonde hair from her eyes, telling her of the dangers of loving without restraint, how to never give her heart over fully. That those who loved that way were substantially changed forever, no longer complete. And she would listen, absorbing every word, learning at a young age to fear love and everything it represented. She had decided long ago to never love with that degree of abandonment, where life was perceived as innocent, the threat of loss implausible. There would be no happy ending, no prince charming for her. But then Oscar had entered her life and challenged everything she believed in.

Never allow a man to stay the night. Never apologize. Never fall in love. She was breaking all her rules; and it would change everything forever. She was going against everything she had taught herself, everything that she stood for. She didn't even recognize herself anymore. Even beneath the happy exterior, she knew that she was still damaged, in her own mind, she was still no good. Sometimes, love had a habit of making two people ruin one another, even in love. They would hurt and make each other bleed, and she had this fear of doing that to Oscar, of destroying him. That's what damaged people did. Honestly, the only person she ever allowed herself to love completely was Manny, and that was on an entirely different level than Oscar. How she felt towards him was complex and layered, and very much real.

She watched him now, bent across his desk, his hand feverishly writing his name across the bottom of a document, completely focused on the task, unware of her scrutiny. Her eyes were steady and sharp, memorizing his form to memory; the wave of his dark hair, the playfulness in his eyes. She never felt this way before, never loved a man so completely. She was losing herself by loving him and it scared her.

She had spent the majority of her life keeping people at arm's length, never allowing them to get too close. It was her way of protecting herself, to ensure that she was never left broken-hearted, to never allow people the opportunity to destroy her, even if it meant her leaving before she was left. In the long run, it saved everyone a lot of unnecessary hurt and heartache; it kept her safe. But he had spun into her life like a tornado, uprooting everything in his path, creating chaos from the fragile illusion of normalcy that she had created, changing everything that she believed, making her want to risk it all, to give herself over to him completely. And unintentionally, she had done just that; rendered herself vulnerable, and now he could break her if wanted, and there was nothing she could do about it.

He lifted his head, sensing her presence, and glanced in her direction, giving her a faint smile. She blushed from the sudden attention, realizing that she had been staring, and lowered her gaze, rearranging a few files on her desk absently. She was feeling nervous all of a sudden, a flutter of butterflies in her stomach. She hoped her partner didn't pick up on it. She heard the screech of wheels on linoleum as he pushed back his chair, glancing at him sideways. He stretched out his long legs, and folded his arms behind his head, studying her for a moment. "What are you thinking for lunch?"

For the moment, she was surprised by the question, not realizing the late hour. She fumbled over her words, shrugging her shoulders, and placed her chin in the palm of her hand, looking at him from across the room. "Chinese sounds good."

He laughed, standing from his chair, and crossing the room in long even strides, positioning himself on the ledge of her desk. The proximity of his closeness only managed to cloud her mind more. She shifted her attention to the stack of papers in front of her, rumpling through the corners, pretending like his nearness wasn't have an effect on her, wasn't causing her stomach to somersault. He folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her in amusement. "Aren't you sick of Chinese food yet?"

"Blasphemy," she teased; leaning back in her chair, sending blonde curls falling over her shoulder as she cocked her head sideways, her eyes landing at the curve of his mouth. She was struck with the sudden urge to kiss him, to brush her lips across his soft, full ones. And she didn't even care that they were at work, surrounded by coworkers. She wanted to taste him, to feel him pressed up against her. He was going to be her downfall; the one thing to break her.

Neither spoke, the moment stretching for what felt like an eternity. They were playing a dangerous game, being involved. There was so much at stake, and they were risking it all. She didn't want this to just be about sex, to just be a brief fling, she wanted more than that, she wanted a long-term relationship, but being in love with him could complicate things. He gave her a perplex expression, reading her mind. He opened his mouth to say something, when Lucas rounded the corner.

The young detective hurriedly headed in their direction, somber in appearance, his lips drawn downward. "Detectives Flynn, Vega, I'm afraid I have some news." His voice was serious, dangling a clear plastic evidence bag from his hand. It glistened in the light every time that he moved; the shine of it catching her attention as she fell back in her chair frowning. "Keith Adams is dead."

"Murdered," she asked; snapping her head around to look at Vega. She wasn't expecting that and judging from her partner's expression, neither was he. They had arranged to pick him up later that day, securing the evidence they finally needed, and a warrant for his arrest.

Lucas shook his head firmly. "No," he explained, "Apparent suicide; and get this, he left a letter confessing to the murders of both David and Anna Hill." He held up the clear evidence bag, his eyes darting back and forth between the detectives.

Angie narrowed her eyes, snatching the bag out of his hand. Inside was Keith's letter, she read over the first few lines, not needing to read the rest and handed it to Vega. She shook her head in disgust, feeling sick to her stomach. It wasn't the ending she was hoping for.

Vega glanced at the letter dishearteningly, wearing a similar expression, his shoulders sloping as he tilted his head to look in her direction, his eyes wary and remorseful. "I guess in a way, justice was served," his tone was meek, not really believing a word he said.

"Except that it doesn't feel that way at all," Angie voiced, tilting her head down. She felt defeated, like their work was all for nothing. David and Anna had died in vain. Their killer wouldn't even be held accountable for his crime, taking the coward's way out. An angry breath escaped her lips, cursing silently to herself. Out of all the outcomes, she wasn't prepared for this one at all.

Her partner sensed her deflation, and reached over touching the back of her hand, his fingers warm and soft. She didn't move, allowing his fingers to stoke over the skin on the back of her hand, tracing up along her knuckles, before interfolding his fingers between hers, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. The action was intimate and telling, so much so that Lucas actually coughed, slightly uncomfortable with the sign of such affection. But Vega ignored him, and continued to hold her hand, simply staring into her eyes. She actually trembled beneath his touch, feeling raw and somehow fragile. Her heart leapt into her throat and she tried to swallow it back down again.

The tension was thick and palpable, suspending heavy around them, and neither seemed to care that they were in a crowded precinct. To them, they were the only two that existed in the world. And for a moment, something deep inside her snapped and shifted, and fell out of place, like the breaking of a bone. It ascended from her stomach, going to her chest, and moving into the back of her throat. It gnawed at her from the inside, splitting her in half. Loving Oscar Vega was physically killing her.

That part of her that resisted love, that never allowed her to take the risk, resurfaced once more, reminding her that she would never be good enough for him. Her edges were sharp, and although unintentionally, she knew she would hurt him, wound him, and leave him visually scarred. If he was to even survive her at all, he would be stained, somehow marked from their time together. If she loved him at all, she would let him go, set him free to find someone better than her. It was his only chance at happiness, for her to break this off, whatever this song and dance they were doing, this barely whispered promise of happily ever after. It was the only way to prevent him from resenting her.

She jerked her hand from his, avoiding his gaze. He tempted to reach out for her, but she moved from his reach, heading down the hall in a panic. She managed to make it to the bathroom before bursting into tears. What was she thinking, getting involved with him? He was the most important thing in her life, and she was messing it up. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, red-eyed and tear-stained; she would ruin herself before she would ruin him.

It was the hardest decision that she ever made, deciding to walk away from him. She turned on the water, cupping her hands beneath it, feeling the coldness. She splashed it over her face, trying to rid herself from the tears. She would have to go back out there, she would have to face him, and she would have to end this. One day, he would understand.

For the rest of the day, she barely spoke to him, barely even looked at him. She skipped lunch, claiming paperwork. He could tell something was wrong, she saw it in his eyes; the hurt from her rejection. She allowed work to distract her, to preoccupy her mind. She didn't want to think, because if she did, she would change her mind, she would stay with him forever.

By the end of their shift, the precinct was at a slow crawl, most of the other detectives gone for the evening. He was still at his desk, watching her silently. She stared away, trying to think of anything else. When he approached her, she gradually looked up, sighing as his hand came down to rest on her shoulder. He bowed his head, asking discreetly, "You coming over tonight?"

He sounded so sincere that her lips began to tremble, the tears fresh in her eyes. "Not tonight," she said. And he squeezed her shoulder in understanding, a heartbroken expression written across his face. She was breaking his heart, and hers, too.

He walked away in a defeated posture, her eyes following him out. She stared ahead, vacant and aloof, believing that he deserved better, resolved to the idea that she had to let him go. Once he was gone, the trace of his back merely a shadow, a distant reminder of all that she loved in this whole world, she leaned her head back against her chair, staring up at the ceiling. The precinct was a quiet hush; the buzz of the fluorescent lights above her head, the only sound. She pulled open her bottom desk drawer, taking out the bottle of scotch that she kept; reserved for when cases failed with endings that kept her raw and bitter, for nights that stretched on with no ending in sight, for drowning that dulling ache inside her. Her heart was scattering into a million pieces and she needed to drink, to lose herself in the alcohol's bittersweet taste.

She poured the rich amber liquid into her glass with a heavy splash, trying to forget all about the pain that she was feeling. She chased it back, closing her eyes, allowing it to burn the back of her throat on the way down. She loved him. It was as simple as that. It's also what prevented her from pouring another round; her fingers still tightly clasping the bottle's neck. If she loved him, why was she pushing him away? And then it happened. She let go; lost herself in oblivion; dark and silent and somehow complete. She found freedom. Loving him was freedom.

Deep down, she knew he loved her as well; every aspect of her, even her flaws and razor-sharp edges, he saw the beauty in her. She was too tired to fight it anymore; it was time that she surrendered, it was time that she went home.

She arrived at his house, late at night, allowing herself in with her key. She stopped in the living room, removing her coat and purse, discarding them on the couch, in a heap. She kicked off her boots, tiptoeing down the hall, in the direction of his bedroom. She figured he would still be awake, considering how they left things.

He was sitting up, his back against the headboard, when she entered. He looked at her pleasantly surprised to see her, his eyes coming alive instantly. "I didn't think you were coming over tonight."

She pulled back the covers, climbing in beside him, her hand falling against his chest. "I changed my mind," she admitted, resting her head on his shoulder. "I hope it's okay."

He nodded, folding her into his arms, and kissing her softly on the forehead. "I'm glad you did. I miss you when you're not here."

She took a hesitant breath, her fingers absently stoking his chest. "I'm sorry about earlier. I had a lot on my mind."

"Like what," he inquired, running his fingers down the length of her arm.

She buried her face further into his neck, finding comfort in the scent of him. She relaxed slightly, knowing how ridiculous she was behaving, thinking she would destroy him, that this couldn't work. It had already been working, they had been practically dating for months now, just neither had approached the subject, nor given it a title, and it was time they did. "I've been thinking. Maybe it's time that we made this official, our relationship."

He looked down, giving her a perplex expression, his brows furrowed, and then cracked a smile. "Good to know that I don't have to give you that letter asking you to be my girlfriend; the one with the check yes or no boxes."

She elbowed his side playfully, laughing in spite of herself. "I'm not that bad."

"Yes, you are, but I love you regardless." He tilted her head back, so he could look her in the eyes, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Don't think I don't know what you were doing earlier."

She attempted to play coy, averting her eyes, and swallowing. "And what exactly was I doing?"

He rolled over, hovering above her, pinning her between the mattress and his body, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "I saw the panic. I saw the fear in your eyes. I knew you were scared."

She caught her breath, searching his face for a moment, seeing the love and care that resided there. "Why didn't you say something," she asked.

"Because we all get like that," he answered. "You just needed to work through the motions. I knew you would come around eventually. You always do. But I don't ever want you to think that you're undeserving of me, or my love. Do you understand me?"

She nodded her head, lifting it slightly to kiss him on the lips. She must be the luckiest woman on earth to have him, to have found the person to complete her. She would love him forever, and forever didn't seem that long anymore. Come rough or still waters, she was his.

**End.**


End file.
